Fear Old People and Garbage Trucks

“His age was indeterminate. But in cynicism and general world weariness, which is a sort of carbon dating of the personality, he was about seven thousand years old."

 - Terry Pratchett, "Guards! Guards!”

I am in that middle stage of life where I’m young enough that old people bother me and I’m not yet old enough to not notice whether I bother younger people.

Just getting into the parking lot at the doctor’s office this morning was an exercise in a slow motion demolition derby where the drivers don’t want to hit anything but they have the reaction time of a turtle with narcolepsy, the situational awareness of a small hill and a complete failure to understand how rearview mirrors work. And they drive like slow shit. Then, there’s the people with walkers, people trying to help people in walkers who are exhibiting significant senile agitation; and those who can’t read the sign that says which line to queue in at the lab. There was a long line to check in, but the waiting room itself was empty. Never a good sign. I always bring a book. The single receptionist seemed to be taking a long time checking in patients. I read a chapter and finally made it to the desk.

Receptionist at lab:  Have you been to Africa recently?

Me: Nope.

Receptionist: Have you been around anybody who has recently been to Africa?

WISIMH:  Possibly Nana in the walker painted like an American flag, who feinted left directly into me as I was trying to pass her at the exact moment she decided to detour to the ladies room. Now that I think of it though, that was in the hallway and I’ve been waiting in line for the 21 day Ebola incubation period, so I’m good.

Me: Nope.

Receptionist: Well, let’s see if we can find a sticker with your primary care doctor’s name and phone number that I can paste on your plastic ID card. (She’s fumbling in a large envelope of tiny stickers with different doctor names and numbers. Spoiler alert: never found it.)

WISIMH: I’ve been covered by Kaiser for about 40 years and have never had my doctor’s name sticker on my card. I’ve lived to tell the tale. And there are 15 people in the waiting line and now I see why it’s taking so long.

Me:  I was hoping to get my lab tests done before dinner. I’m fasting so I’m a tad grumpy. No caffeine and that.

Receptionist: Isn’t that the worst? Especially when the lines are so long and blah blah blah.

What I was Getting Ready to Say in My Head: No, sweetie. The worst is an idiot receptionist who is so scatterbrained she makes a rutted gravel road look like it has its act together.

Lady Too Good to Wait in Line:  Excuse me, I have an appointment. Do I have to wait in line?

Me: Or, you could read the sign and wait in the appointment line instead of the line where the common people wait.

Receptionist: (Using way too many words to interpret the sign that says “Appointments” and “No Appointments” with arrows pointing respectively left and right of the post with the straps to corral waiting patients.)

Me:  Excuse ME. I’m being served now. Perhaps you could wait until I check in and interrupt the next patient if you’re too important to read the sign.

I should note that while I may not be old enough not to notice when I bother people, I’m old enough to let rude people know when they bother me.

Receptionist: (Regaining consciousness, or whatever it is she uses in lieu of consciousness) Have you been to Africa recently?

WISIMH:  Yes actually, the waiting line extends to Sierra Leone.

Me: Nope.

Once checked in, there was zero wait time to get into the lab. The phlebotomist noticed the scratch scabs on my arms and the Band-Aids covering even worse and still bloody scratch scabs.

Phlebotomist:  Do you have a cat who jumps off your lap?

Me:  Yes, and I have an INR that makes my blood so thin I bleed when I sneeze.

WISIMH: Hence today’s lab test to confirm that so they can adjust my Coumadin to a level that makes my eyes not bleed when I encounter annoying people at the lab.

Phlebotomist:  My cat is afraid of the garbage truck. She runs away from the window when it comes.

Me:  Well, you have to admit garbage trucks are pretty scary.

Phlebotomist: Strangely, I was afraid of garbage trucks when I was a kid.

Me: Do you still run away when they come?

Phlebotomist: (Giving me a mildly confused look because apparently to her sarcasm is just a seven-letter word beginning with s.) No.

Me:  Well, I hope your cat will outgrow it too.

Recessive Jean

"For nearing its desired end, out intellect sinks into an abyss so deep that memory fails to follow it."

Dante, Divine Comedy

DOB fell. The nursing facility called. I told them I don’t care. I asked them to take me off their call list. They won’t. This is to déjà vu what being tapped on the shoulder is to being hit by a train.

Then DOS called to tell me DOB fell. Oh dear I exclaimed. Drama ensued as the details were related. Details included another move to another room precipitated by another fight between demented other roommates that apparently disrupt the more subdued residents. More time passed. It turned out she was not only fine, but by dinner had no recollection she had fallen at lunch. I think this may have happened before, but to say I no longer have the fucks to remember is like saying I have elevated cholesterol. Last time I bothered to check the overall number was >300.

To say I have zero fucks to give on this matter is to understate the degree to which this latest downfall depressed me. The German word I just made up for this post is unterfockingstadmunt. We’re into negative numbers trying to compute the fucks I give about DOB. Talking to people with these recessive genes on the phone is like entering a denser Higgs field where the drag on every particle of my body increases.

I mean it depressed me. I read an article this morning by somebody who suffers from depression schooling well-meaning people who say the wrong thing to them. It apparently didn’t occur to the author who listed the symptoms of the disease called depression by way of distinguishing it from say, a bad mood, that she missed one. Depressed people believe non-depressed people don’t get them. In her case she mistook my lack of fucks to give for lack of understanding.

I get it. You’re sick. Like cancer. It hurts. Like cancer. It even kills. Like… If I said I feel sorry for you, you’d be pissed. If I said I’d pray for you you certainly should be pissed. If I said I hope you feel better... If I said pretty much anything you’d be pissed. Why? Because you’re fucking depressed. So, since you’re going to blame me for making things worse by trying to make things better, I’ll just say I don’t care. Which is ok by the way, because I’m pissed about being depressed too. So I can use those words and merely sad people can’t.

But look on the bright side. Here’s some cold comfort. I don’t care about DOB slightly more than I don’t care for misunderstood depressives. I care slightly more that a person with depression might be pissed at me for not caring than I care about the depressing fact that while that my link to my dysfunctional in-laws is gone… They. Are. Still. Here.

Apparently, they don’t get me. How depressing.